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One of Damiano's aunts invited us to dinner at her house in the countryside, and I know Nora needs this. She needs to be surrounded by the people who loved him, to hear their stories and discover the pieces of his life she never got to see.

I'll find some quiet tomorrow.

Somehow.

The farther we drive from town, the better my head feels.

Houses become fewer and farther apart until there's mostly open land around us. Dry grass. Olive trees. Rows of vines and fruit trees I can't name. The road narrows enough that I wonder what the hell we're supposed to do if another car comes from the opposite direction.

Then Dex turns onto an even smaller road.

Of course.

We follow it between low stone walls until a house appears ahead of us, surrounded by olive trees.

It's an old place. Cream-colored stone warmed by the setting sun, dark green shutters thrown open against the walls, and terracotta pots lining the steps. Bougainvillea climbs over part of the house, bright flowers spilling across the stone like nobody ever told them where to stop growing.

Then I see the horses.

Everything else disappears.

There are three of them in a field beyond the house, and before anyone can tell me where we're supposed to go, I'm out of the car and walking towards the fence.

“Of course,” Dex mutters behind me.

I ignore him.

They're different from the horses back home. Smaller. Leaner. Built lighter through the body, but there's nothing fragile about them. The ground beneath their feet is dry and hard, scattered with grass that's seen better days, and instead of the barn and stalls I'm used to, they have a simple open shelter throwing deep shade across one end of the field.

The first horse reaches me before I reach him.

A dark bay.

I hold out my hand and let him make the decision.

He sniffs my palm, then my shirt, before pushing his nose against my chest.

I smile.

“Hey, buddy.”

I run my hand along his neck while I look him over without really meaning to.

Habit.

Clear eyes. Good coat. Healthy weight. Clean legs. His hooves are harder and a little more worn than I'd expect back home, but even.

Different.

Not neglected.

Just a horse accustomed to different ground, different weather, a different life.

There's something about the way these three move through their field, with the olive trees around them and the open shelter at the far end, that makes the whole place feel less controlled than what I'm used to.

Like the land belongs to them as much as it does to the people who own it.

I look towards the other two grazing beneath the trees.